Facade
by Reyem
Summary: Sometimes, blood runs deep, even for a Ravenclaw. Written for Round 7 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.


_Team: Tutshill Tornadoes_

_Position: Beater 2_

_Ship to sink: Romilda Vane/Morag MacDougal_

_Opt Prompts: red nails; countryside; there's nothing good about goodnight when it means goodbye._

* * *

**FACADE**

The crickets were chirping. It was serene, but the emotions Romilda was feeling was the complete opposite. She tapped her red painted fingernails nervously on the stone wall, waiting for Morag to show up. She then checked her watch. Ten minutes late. Oh, the nerve of the woman…

"Hey, Vane!" someone shouted from a distance.

Romilda straightened up. "Oh it's so nice of you to show up," she said sarcastically.

"Please. This is better than I normally do," she replied, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Her companion chuckled in response and shook her head, turning her face away from the girl. "So…you wanted to tell me something."

"Oh we can get into that later. I want to know how you've been doing!" Morag said, all too enthusiastically.

Romilda furrowed her brow. "Um…I've been fine, Morag. You know, since we saw each other _last _night." Her stomach turned nervously. If she wasn't being upfront with her, the news couldn't be good… "Morag, what is it that you aren't telling me?"

Morag blatantly avoided her eye contact. "Well, I saw my parents today…"

"Oh…" Things were looking bleaker and bleaker for Romilda. Truth be told, there wasn't anything directly wrong with Mr. and Mrs. Vane. It's just that they were a more traditional family than most Ravenclaws. "What did they want?"

"Oh, the usual antics," she shrugged off. "You know, how classes were going, how I was spending my free time, what I was going to do after graduation…" her voice seemed to die off at the last statement.

Romilda's head snapped at the word 'graduation'. "They aren't pressuring you again, are they?"

Her lips were pursed. "No, not this time. This time, they took care of the arrangements." Finally, their eyes met. "Romilda, I'm engaged."

Her eyes grew wide as her heart broke in two. "You can't be."

"I am," she said hopelessly, "all signed, sealed, and just about delivered." Romilda turned her back away from her, and Morag put a pleading hand on her shoulder. "My mum and dad were threatening to do this for a long time, arrange my marriage. I just never thought they had it in them."

"You...Morag….this is absolutely wrong! They can't force you to do this! This should be _your_ choice. _Your _decision!"

"Well, apparently if I want to live like a beggar I have to do this. This has nothing to do about love. It has all to do with security and making sure I am taken care of."

"So, you'd rather live your fairy tale façade in a huge mansion off on the countryside instead of living true to yourself!"

Morag looked hurt. "C'mon, Romilda. I'm not happy about this either."

"Then tell your parents to bugger off!" she screamed in emotional rage. "We belong together! You even said so yourself! And now you are going back on your word. Merlin, why did I even _think_ you'd choose me over your lavish lifestyle."

"You surely didn't _mind _it when we went off to Italy last holiday!"

Romilda folded her arms and glared at Morag. "We didn't _go off_. We had to sneak, because you didn't want anyone to find out!"

"I'm in a precarious situation, Romilda. I can't just go off and do whatever I fancy, just because I have money. I am a Vane, and I must behave as such."

"So you have to live a lie."

"I have to live up to my family's reputation, lie or not."

Romilda closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay. "I can't believe you can be so complacent about this."

"I'm used to sacrifice, love."

"_Don't,_" she whispered pleadingly. "Don't call me that."

There was so much sorrow in her eyes. "Romilda –"

"Who is he?" she demanded, interrupting her before she could utter anything else. "Who is this man who has to live up to your façade?"

"It's Stephen. Stephen Cornfoot."

Something acrid and bitter was now in her mouth. "Oh, it makes so much sense now. How did I not think of it before?"

Morag shook her head. "I don't understand."

"He's a pureblood, Cornfoot is," she explained rather venomously. "How could I have not realized that even if I was a man, we would never stand a chance? I thought you were above all that rubbish, Morag!"

"I already told you, it's not my choice!"

"It's always your choice! You're embarrassed with me! At first, I thought it was because I was a woman, but it was so much more than that. It's because I'm a woman _and _because I'm a half-blood!"

"That's not true, and you know it!"

"Prove it!" she dared, stepping up to a hairs-length away from her. "Tell your parents the truth. Tell your parents about us. Don't marry Stephen."

Tears were brimming in her eyes. "I _can't._"

Romilda bit her lip and turned to head back to the castle. She had nothing left to say to her. As she was halfway up the path, she could hear Morag chasing after her. "Romilda, I don't want to end things like this."

She turned her step in a flash. "Why is it always about _you? _ Can't you see how much damage you've done already to me? To yourself?"

Morag looked down at her hands. "I know it's selfish, but I still want you in my life, even after I'm married. You'll forever be my best friend, Romilda."

"That," she said bitterly, "is something I could never want. If I have you, I will not share you with anyone. That's my final offer. Take it or leave it."

Morag closed her eyes, and the tears rolled down her cheeks as she shook her head. "Romilda…"

She sighed, shaking her head. "Goodnight, Morag."

"Please, Romilda –"

"I said, goodnight, Morag."

Morag remained standing in place as Romilda reentered the castle alone. She peered up at the night sky, unashamed of the tears that continued to flow. She cursed her pureblood lifestyle, and she wished that things could have been differently, but she had specific obligations to live up to."

"Goodbye, Romilda," she said as a final prayer and farewell to the one she loved.


End file.
